airlover's blog

all of the writers, that joined Coffee Shop Author 2011. I received an e-mail, to say that my entry had not made it, this year again. It was neither first, second, or third. So, I say to you, fellow writers, that didn't make first, second or third, do not despair. The fact that you call yourself a writer, is enough to congratulate yourself, for your countless number of hours, that you give to your craft. Congratulations, to the writers who did make, first, second, or third. And thank you, the administration, for offering a venue, for future writers. There are many ways to get published.

"Santiago, its been twenty days, and still no fish," said the boy.
"You are right. The seas have been rough."
"An old man like me, needs still waters, and a bright sky."
"All the fishermen are talking," said the boy.
"They say, the bad fish spirit, follows you."

"Whatever, let them talk."
"I will venture out tomorrow, when the sun is high."

Since that day, he had been consumed with thoughts of the sharks.
He would hunt them, or become the hunted.
His age had not dampened his fighting spirit.
He would take his harpoon, and his big knife. It would be a fight to the end.

Good day to you earthly writers.
Just wanted to mention, I have written four more short stories, since I've been here.
Did all of you read, Old Man and The Sea?
Well, if you haven't, I would summons you to, go and seek it out.
It just happened to be, my biggest selling short story.
Really, I was amazed when it took off like it did.

So now, I am ready to introduce my new work.

a slut, a bitch, a liar. I have a weird feeling she's been unfaithful.
"Are you keeping your wife prisoner, in her own home?" he asks.

"Do you feel like a prisoner?" he asks, the wife.
"Depending on the kind of day, we are having. she answers. My children are the safety zone."

"Does he intimidate you?"
"Sometimes, I am scared."
"He's said that he would skin me alive, if he ever found proof that I was cheating."

"You don't want to be skinning anyone alive," says Dr. Phil.

"The brain is a very powerful thing,

Oh God, wash away their tears.
When the storm of life, rages on,
still the waters, almighty God.

Please comfort the weary,
the sad,
the dying.

Thank you Lord,
for all the blessings.

In Jesus's name,
Amen.

Haven't noticed much activivity on the blog, coffee shop author.
Where are the writers?
So far, we met a few of you.
Jaw, the Old Guy Lynn, Airlover, and Greysnick, the writer with the bright eyes.
What are you sharing with the world, oh, earthly writers?
Are you putting down your thoughts and words every day?
What can coffee shop author bring to the world, this year?

Some of Jaws, Coventry Ghosts, told a few of the other ghosts up here, and then Henry Schoolcraft spoke his piece.

We just wanted to tell you earthlings,
There's a library of great works up here.

Bloodshed in the streets.
Egypt in the throws of war.
A president hides in his castle.
A million strong in the streets.
They will tar and feather him, if he shows his face.

Anger on thier faces.
Sadness in their eyes, and hearts,
how did this all start?
Greed.
Hunger, will drive them into the streets,
to demand their rights.

The president, is worth forty billion dollars.
The average Egyptian makes pennies a day.
Where is the justice?
Is there any justice for the people?

The president sends his henchmen in on camels, and horses,
whips in their hands.

I spent two years writing my debut story, Alice Had A Palace. Putting the manuscript away, in a velvet lined box, going back to it, eight months later. Now, I am ready to give it a sharp edit, and send it out to the world. Although, this story was in its rough draft stage, it is already having its effect on the world. I have a lot of faith, in this creative non-fiction piece. Something has changed about the story. I can see it through a different lense. Just one of the miracles of writing.

I have big dreams for this story. They will make a movie of my story.

Pain sears in my legs, I am face down on the pavement. A tall, thin man lays on the grassy side. I am crying now. The man struggles to his feet. He walks over to me. I can see his white and blue runners. Are you alright lady? He asks. In shock, my voice is faint, blood runs down my forehead onto my hands and face. I taste the coppery, bitter, blood in my mouth. I tried to alert you he says. My thousand dollar bicycle is wrecked he says as he bends to pick it up off the ground, the front wheel mangled. Walking over to me,he bends to try and help me up.

The lost,
the forgotten,
the unfortunate.

Tortured souls,
they walk the unforgiving streets
in search of their next fix.

WAlking like gouls from their tombs,
their bloody hands, and broken faces.

Some push their lives around in a grocery cart,
sadness walking with them, every step,
through their days.

Sadness never leaves.

The streets where they troll,
covered in grime, of their blood,
sweat, and tears, of the ones that love them.

Someone's daughter,
another's son.

They howl in the night,
wrestling with the demons,
their screams muffled by the dampness.